Against the Tide
by dashinginconverse
Summary: If you were to ask me why I hate John Cena, I would give you three reasons: he always wins, his character is stale, and really, no one can be that nice. Imagine my surprise when Cena himself comes into the restaurant where I work, and - over time - ends up changing my opinion of him forever. CenaOC
1. Damaging Developments

_**Disclaimer: **__Nothing's mine. Only own my OC(s)._

_**Summary: If you were to ask me why I hate John Cena, I would give you three reasons: he always wins, his character is stale, and really, no one can be that nice. Imagine my surprise when Cena himself comes into the restaurant where I work, and - over time - ends up changing my opinion of him forever. CenaOC**_

_New story! I just couldn't help myself. I had the craving to write a CenaOC fic, and this idea just wouldn't leave me alone. And I really like those kind of hate-turned-love relationships, and was eager to try my hand at it. I really hope that everyone enjoys this little fic, and I'd love some feedback! Thanks so much for giving this a shot, whoever decides to read! Haha. _

* * *

**Against the Tide  
****Chapter One: Damaging Developments**

* * *

I am a waitress.

I'm sure that is the most unremarkable sentence anyone has ever uttered, but hey, it's what I do. I'm not very good at it, really. I take orders and smile at everyone, but I end up forgetting to refill drinks and asking people if they want to-go boxes. I haven't managed to get fired yet, so I believe I'm doing pretty good so far. Again, "good" being a subjective term.

The restaurant where I work is called _Hugh's. _I know, original title, right? But Hugh, the owner, is really nice and hasn't fired me yet despite all of my shortcomings, so I owe him my gratitude.

The whole place is a little dive bar nestled in the outskirts of Boston. I could probably recite the menu to you by heart, but I won't waste your time with that. The food is good, the company is nice, and they are one of the only restaurants that I know of that play the WWE Pay-Per-Views on their screens every Sunday one comes around.

Everyone at work knows how much of a WWE buff I am, so that means everyone knows that I am always a little loopy on PPV night. I am easily distracted, silently rooting for my favorites - and sometimes not-so-silently. The customers have never complained, at least.

One of my favorite concepts for the PPVs as of late has been Money in the Bank. Everything about it has interested me. The concept of grabbing a ladder to reach a contract-in-a-suitcase, and then being able to use that contract any time to cash in for a championship match. It brought a level of guessing, a level of excitement. Every time a champion would be down, you'd wonder, "Oh, man! I bet so-and-so is going to cash in!"

The whole Pay-Per-View was going good. The Raw Money in the Bank match included only four people, which I was kind of iffy about at first, but I was glad that at least Chris Jericho and Kane were in it. Big Show was cool and all, and I didn't have an issue with him, but then...

Cena's hands clasped around the briefcase, clutching it and then smacking it against Big Show's cranium. He unhooked the briefcase from where it hung, and just like that...

John Cena was the Raw 2012 Money in the Bank winner.

I stared in awe, in disbelief, as the place erupted. Boston was a big Cena town - another reason why I hated the place - and everyone was cheering.

I, however, had a different reaction.

"Son of a _bitch_!"

I almost got fired for that little outburst. Apparently, there were children around. I should have noticed their Fruity Pebble-y clothing, and the fact they kept doing the "You Can't See Me" face thing. Not to mention the fact I spilled water down a guy's back as soon as the obscenity left my mouth.

Hey, I never said I was a particularly _pleasant _person.

I consoled myself with the fact that Punk retained and Ziggler won the Smackdown Money in the Bank, but still, the fact that Cena won - _again _- bothered me.

Many people wonder why I'm the one to start - and fail to keep up - the Cena Sucks chants, and I could condense it down into three short and concise reasons.

One, he always wins.

Two, his character is completely stale.

And three, no one can possibly be that nice.

Call me a cynic, call me a bitch, whatever. I think what I think, and even though the whole of Boston is completely Cena-centric, I remain the lone person in this godforsaken town that doesn't like him. I supposed, if he were to turn heel, then I might like him a bit more. Maybe.

Which, let's face it, ain't gonna happen.

All of these thoughts raced through my head as I poured my customer a refill. I couldn't help but feel eager about tomorrow's Smackdown episode. The Raw this Monday had been interesting, yet I still hated seeing Cena with the briefcase. At least he was cashing it in, soon. On an all-too aware Punk. On the one thousandth episode.

I sighed as I moved back to the front counter, heading behind the cash register and where they kept the t-shirts that were for sale. The t-shirts that everyone employed at _Hugh's _had to wear daily. Nightly. Whatever shift you had. I was currently getting change for the nice man who I had accidentally spilled cheese dip all over. I expected my tip - if I even got any - to be thin at best. But money was money, and I wasn't going to complain.

I had my head bent over counting each dollar out specifically - if there was anything I was good at, it was numbers - when the chime on the door rang, indicating a new customer. Not particularly surprising, but slightly out of the ordinary, for a customer to come in at ten o'clock at night, requesting a meal. The place was deserted as it was, only Cheese Dip Man sitting at the bar along the side of the wall, watching some kind of news station on one of the many television screens mounted all over the place.

I heard a vague gasp, and then a snicker. I turned and was faced with one of my co-workers, Rose.

"Your customer," she told me. "Table Eight."

I frowned at her. "Why - "

She held up a perfectly manicured hand. "You _cursed _in front of _children_."

"Fine!" I sighed exasperatedly, feeling too tired to argue. "But you can't hold that over my head forever, you know."

"I can try!" she called out as I walked over to deposit the change on The Cheese Man. I ran a hand through my hair and then turned to glance at Table Eight, the current bane of my existance.

And I paused.

Sitting at that very table, the familiar figure of John Cena greeted me.

"Son of a _bitch_!"

* * *

_**End Chapter One.**_


	2. Mangled Meetings

_**Disclaimer:**__ I don't own anything except my OC(s)._

_Oh my goodness gracious. I really wasn't expecting the response for the first chapter at all, but it was pleasantly surprising. I am just so glad that some people are enjoying this story. It's super fun to write. Anyway! I hope that y'all like this update! Thanks so much for reading and giving this little fic a shot!_

* * *

**Against the Tide  
****Chapter Two: Mangled Meetings**

* * *

I felt my mouth drop.

The whole thing...I had to pinch myself - literally - just to make sure I was seeing correctly. This couldn't possibly be happening. This was too insane. This didn't happen to people in real life. This was the thing of a Nicholas Sparks book or one of those cheesy romance movies that cheated the main characters out of a happy ending for no particular reason. So, I guess, not so different from some of Nicholas Sparks' works. But different in the fact that I hated John Cena with the entirety of my being -

I shook my head, closing my eyes as I did so, and then saw nothing had changed. Albeit, Cena was still staring at me as if I were from another planet, but that was to be expected. I was the gaping, moronic girl staring at him, after all.

I turned around to face Rose only to find her missing from sight, gone off in the back where all the cooks were, I supposed. I half wondered if she made me take this table on purpose. Maybe she was trying to get me fired, because she certainly knew well enough to realize that Cena-hating was one of my favorite pastimes.

I turned and grasped one set of napkin-wrapped utensils, starting my walk towards Table Eight. Cena was staring at me as I came towards him, those large eyes of his friendly and clueless.

Oh, he was in for a shock.

Or, maybe not, since I guess he dealt with this kind of thing far more often than normal people.

"Hello," I said through clenched teeth, placing the utensils. "I'll be your waitress."

He gave me a jovial, amused smile. "Don't act so pleased."

I returned his smile with one of my own. Though, mine was strained and I almost shattered my teeth while doing it. "Oh, I'm just..._tickled_."

I reached down and got out my little ordering notepad and pen, then looked up at him. "What do you want?"

Cena gave a funny little laugh and then said, "Water would be fine."

"Water..._interesting_..." I mumbled as I scribbled the order down on my notebook.

"What's that?"

"Nothing..." I trailed off, fighting back any vulgarity I wanted to call him. I knew that this could very well be the customer that got me fired. But oh, I hated having to restrain myself. I settled for acidly calling him "sir" and then walking away to retrieve his stupid water. Which I would have loved to pour over his head.

"I hate you," I told Rose as I poured water from a pitcher into a clean glass. Damn, why couldn't there be any questionable ones that the dishwasher hadn't, well, _washed_? Ugh.

"Why's that?" she asked me, vacantly, uncaring.

"John effing Cena is at Table Eight. Duh."

Rose, apparently, either hadn't noticed or was a very good bullshitter. Her eyebrows rose into her hairline and her mouth dropped open. "Are you kidding me?"

"No! I would _not _make this up." I sat the glass of water rather violently down on the counter. "If I was going to make anything up, it would be that Orlando Bloom was at Table Eight, _not John Cena_."

"Orlando Bloom is here, too?!"

"No!" I shouted at her. Geez, the gift of understanding language was lost on some people. I gave her a glare and then set out to bring Cena his water. If this had happened any other time, I'd want to make him wait as long as possible, but really, I just wanted him to eat and leave so I didn't have to look at him this close up and personal anymore.

I walked up to him begrudgingly. It was almost like treading through thick soup or something. I sat his glass down on the table in front of him with the same traces of violence displayed before Rose just moments ago. "Your water," I drawled. "Ready to order yet?"

Cena cocked his head to the side. "You don't like me all that much, do you?"

"No shit, Fruity Pebble - " I cut myself off, curling my traitorous lips inward and biting on them.

Though, instead of reprimanding me or threatening to call his lawyer or whatever it was that famous people did when confronted with a rather...antagonistic individual, he started laughing.

_Laughing._

I felt my eye literally start to twitch in response to it. Booming and unashamed, his laughter filled the stillness of the restaurant. Cheese Man over at the bar requested Rose for another drink. I didn't blame him. I would have ordered the entire stock, if I were him.

"Hey!" I snapped. "Can you please _order already_?"

Still chuckling, Cena closed one of his eyes as if thinking particularly hard about something. "Well, I would, you see, if I got a menu when I sat down."

My hands curled into fists as a frustrated flush flashed across my cheeks. Of course my lackluster waitressing skills would cause the figurehead of the freaking Cenation to stay longer at my workplace than was necessary.

"I'll get you a menu," I said, going back to my earlier technique of speaking through clenched teeth.

Rose was busy filling up another drink for the sole guy at the bar, and I snatched a menu from a pile of the items on the front desk, scowling all the while.

I tossed the menu at Cena and he caught it in his large hands, that stupid grin never leaving his face. "There ya go, big guy."

This was apparently very amusing to him, since he just laughed at me and took his sweet time in deciding on an appetizer. Appetizers meant he would be ordering more food afterward. And then maybe even a desert, since he seemed enraptured at the variety of cakes and pies we served. And that meant, _more time with him._

I wrote down his appetizer - crab cakes - and then placed the order to one of our late night cooks.

"_Dude_," he said, waving his spatula like it was a magic wand. "I'm cooking crab cakes for John Cena."

"Shut up, James."

And thus was the night. Cena would order. I'd give the order to James. James would crow things like, "Dude, I'm making John Cena's bacon cheeseburger," or "Dude, I'm making John Cena's ice cream sundae," or "Dude, I totally tweeted pics of John Cena's food to everyone we work with."

To all of which, I would go, "Shut up, James!" in varying degrees of desperation.

I brought Cena his burger and fries, which he ate in an almost painfully slow way. I refilled his water several times, spilling accidentally only twice and purposefully only once. The sundae came last, and it really looked so good that I might have stolen the cherry from atop it. But, of course, no one has to know about that.

Just when I was in the clear, bringing Cena his very last foodstuff of the night, I saw Rose chatting him up, looking eager and excited as Cena bent over something, scribbling away. After a moment, he looked up and handed her a napkin. It was then I realized that Rose had asked him for an autograph, and had provided the nearest thing possible for the signiture.

"Oh, what the hell," I breathed, shocked. Rose wasn't even interested in WWE or anything like that. I supposed that it didn't matter who the celebrity was, an autograph opportunity was an autograph opportunity.

"There's my sundae!" Cena said cheerily, motioning me forward. I paused purposefully, hating being beckoned forward like his wench.

After a moment, I stepped forward, placing the bowl of desert in front of him while simultaneously handing him the check. "Well, that was quick," he said, staring at the little black book on the edge of the table.

"When you're ready," I told him uneasily, hating myself for even giving him that much leeway in his timeline.

"What's your name?" he asked, randomly.

My eye twitched. "Why?"

Cena shrugged. "I'd just like to know the name of the person who hates me so much."

"Are you, like, a masochist or something?"

This garnered a laugh from him. "No," he said. "Though I don't think being a masochist has anything to do - "

"Tessa," I told him sharply, interrupting his sentence. "My name is Tessa."

"Pleasure to meet you, Tessa," he said, extending his hand. "I'm John."

I wanted to ignore that hand. It stayed hanging in between us for the longest time before Rose kicked me in the shin. And, seriously, that hurt like a bitch. I glared at her and she looked like she was going to do it again, so I shook Cena's hand. Ew.

I dropped my hand after the minimum amount of time that was required to satisfy Rose. "Whenever you're ready," I repeated harshly.

He gave me a smile and a friendly nod as he dug into his ice cream. Rose watched, fascinated, and I had to pry her away before she pounced on him like a gold-digging vulture.

"Hey, what was that for?" she protested, ripping her arm away from my vicelike grip.

"Being a shameless celeb-whore," I told her.

"Hey!" she exclaimed in indignation. "I am _not _shameless."

That earned a laugh out of me, and then I looked over to Table Eight, seeing that Cena had vacated the premises, leaving an empty ice cream bowl, plate, and glass. The chair was tucked neatly underneath the table.

"You skank," Rose scolded. "You scared him off with your bitchy mean-ness."

"Maybe he thought he had another stalker on his hands," I said, prodding her arm with a finger. She winced, that wimp, and went back to tend to the guy that was _still _at the bar. Seriously, maybe he needed to go to AA or something.

_AA, _I thought, cringing, _Attitude Adjustment. Jesus._

I walked over to Cena's abandoned table, picking up the leather booklet with one hand while looking at the massive amount of dirty dishes he had left us with. Change jingled from inside the booklet, and I found myself amused that he would pay the exact amount. No tip? Yes, I knew I disliked Cena for a reason.

But then, something caught my eye.

Shoved just underneath the napkin holder in the center of the table was a small rectangular piece of white paper. I cocked my head to the side as I shoved the leather book in my apron pocket and tugged the paper out from underneath the holder.

My breath caught in my throat.

The piece of paper was a check addressed to _Tessa from Hugh's_.

For the amount of _one hundred dollars._

* * *

_**End Chapter Two.**_


	3. Confusing Countenance

_**Disclaimer: **__I don't own anything except my OC(s)._

_Thanks so much for the reviews for the last chapter! They mean so very much to me. I know that this update is way overdue, but school kind of got in the way and inspiration for this fic has been kind of fleeting. But here it is! Nothing much happens, but I hope that it is enjoyable regardless. Maybe it'll get me back into the swing of writing for this fic of mine. Again, I'm sorry the update came so late, but I do hope y'all enjoy! _

* * *

**Against the Tide  
Chapter Three: Confusing Countenance**

* * *

As cheesy as it sounded, the world stopped spinning.

Seriously, I swear to Jeebus.

The check looked so out of place in my hands. Okay, maybe not the check per se, but the amount on the check was completely and utterly insane.

_In-sane._

I wasn't sure what to do, really. There seemed to be a million thoughts in my mind as well as none at all. I wondered if this was how Randy Orton felt on a daily basis before he started beating the ring half to death and doing the very thing his theme music indicated.

I actually, probably, very-much needed to be RKO-ed into reality at that moment.

Shaking my head and ridding myself of that childish reverie, I looked at Rose, who was occupying the guy at the bar. No one else in the restaurant that could implicate me in being the worst waitress in the world.

So I ran.

I wasn't sure why I was running - really, I wasn't. I'm going to just go with the realization that John Cena just left little ol' me a _one hundred dollar tip_. Or the fact that I'd been stunned by the number of zeroes on the check. I honestly don't remember a time that I had gotten a tip with _one _zero on the tail end of the number, let alone _two_.

I pushed the restaurant doors open and breathed in the sweet night air.

Darkness was the only thing that greeted me.

I wasn't sure what I was prepared to do. My mind had suddenly exploded with insults and indignant comments. Curse words and crude comments paraded through my brain. I supposed being vulgar was my security blanket.

My head twisted from side to side, searching for the man who had very clearly lost his mind and decided to either mock me by giving me more money than I deserved or...

Or he really was _that nice._

_Bullshit, _I told myself. What kind of person did that? Give away money so haphazardly it was like giving away gum? _Seriously._

I had done nothing to deserve such charity. And that was what it felt like. Charity. I wasn't sure what emotion I was actually feeling. So many were boiling around in my chest, swirling together so that I couldn't distinguish one from the other. I ran a hand through my hair and tangled my fingers in the strands, wishing beyond anything that I could just walk the few extra feet and pile into my car and just sleep there.

_Of course,_ a voice in my head said, _he does have a shit ton of money to throw around as well._

If I were to be honest with myself, I knew I didn't deserve the money at all. A part of me even felt guilty that he had decided to do such a thing to such an awful waitress. Such an awful _person_. It was something I was trying to rationalize within myself, why he would even contemplate giving me the amount of money he had.

The cool night air blustered against me, raising goosebumps on my arms and causing me to shiver just slightly. I hugged my arms around myself and closed my eyes, exhaling loudly and forcefully. The exhale turned into a growl halfway out of my chest, and I was glad that there weren't any other witnesses around. I'd hate to think they'd been hoping to come across Bigfoot when, in reality, it was a disgruntled, Cena-hating waitress with a freaking check for _one hundred dollars_ in one fist.

It was then I realized I was, indeed, crumpling the check in my hand. I gave a yelp and frantically straightened out the paper in my hand, cooing at it as if it were my own child.

I kept staring at it as my fingers smoothed the wrinkles from the check. The writing was all still there - and still readable. The numbers, my name carefully spelled out, and Cena's signature at the very bottom. The writing was strangely pretty, unlike most male's handwriting I had been subjected to, and I found a smile creeping over my face despite myself.

I shook my head, wanting to rid myself of any and all Cena positivity.

_Ugh, I'm going soft._

I looked up then, trying to find any sign of me being watched. Or filmed.

Maybe I was being _Punk'd_? Or on that one show the Miz was on? _Hater_, I think it was called, except it was spelled like _H8ter _for some godforsaken reason. Avril Lavigne probably produced that show.

_Stop going off on tangents, Tessa! _I told myself.

I saw no signs of movement. The only cars in the parking lot were mine and Rose's, James', and the rest of the workers. Plus the random fool at the bar that just _wouldn't go home._

Sighing, I resigned myself to the fact that I probably would never know why exactly Cena gave me the tip he did. He was probably only at the humble little restaurant because he was hungry and it was on the way to his hotel room.

I would, most likely, never see him again.

Normally, this would not rub me the wrong way.

But, like you've probably realized, this was most certainly _not _a normal situation.

I ran my hand over my hair, wanting desperately to yank out a few strands. This was not the sort of thing that most people stressed out over, I knew. You get money, you are grateful. But when that money most certainly is _not _deserved and you get a generous - okay, more than generous - portion of it...yeah, that was when things get dicey.

I guessed I could be pretty noble when push came to shove.

Seeing that Cena had most definitely skeedaddled, I figured it would be appropriate to go back in the diner. My shoulders sagged in defeat, I opened the door and walked into the remainder of my shift.

"What was that all about?" Rose asked.

Not able to lie my way out of a paper bag, I presented her with the check.

Rose gaped.

There was a beat, and then she said, "That's John Cena's John Hancock. Do you know how much you can get for that on eBay?"

I fought the urge to cram the check down her throat.

* * *

I was sitting at a table, across from someone whose face I couldn't see. It was almost like watching one of those true life crime documentaries where the face of one of the victims had been blurred out.

A chuckling reached my ears, soft and masculine, not altogether unpleasant. It was different than the laughter I was used to. Fake and forced, a fabricated response to make me seem funnier than I thought I was, to get on my good side. This laughter was different. Interested and completely, utterly involved in what I was saying. The very notion of such a thing was enough to leave me speechless.

"So," the voice said, "I'm looking for the money I gave you."

A pause.

"Uh, what money?"

"You know," the man prodded. "The check."

"What?" I didn't like the direction this was going.

"You know you didn't deserve that money..." the voice continued, menacing. It was at this point I knew where this confrontation was going. "And you spent it - "

A dramatic pause as the lighting became harsh, revealing the face of John Cena. I gasped loudly as he pointed a large finger directly in my face.

" - on CM Punk merchandise!"

I looked down at myself, horrified at what I had done - and yet, not, because Punk had some pretty cool merch. My hands and forearms were taped and marked with X's as per usual of the Second City Saint. I was wearing the latest Punk shirt. I was wearing the _Best in the World _hooded jacket over that. I was even wearing his little wrestling trunks and the matching boots.

While I was sure I looked pretty badass, Cena had other ideas.

He reached forward and slipped a finger underneath the Punk beanie hat I didn't even realize I was wearing, stretched the elastic and then let go, smacking me in the forehead almost too violently for someone with the nickname 'Fruity Pebbles.'

"Ouch!" I exclaimed, grasping my forehead.

"You will give back the money you stole!"

"I didn't steal it!" I defended myself. "You gave it to me."

"You might as well have stolen it, you stupid, Punk-loving _cow_!"

Suddenly, the scenery changed and we were standing on a dock overlooking the ocean. The waves were fierce, looking as if they would overtake the wooden platform where we stood.

"H-Hold on, Cena, I can explain - "

"There is no explanation for being so _greedy _and _mean_!" Cena echoed, and it was like the voice of Morgan Freeman playing God in that one movie coming down and smacking in my face. "Zack! Jericho! Let's fit her for some cement shoes."

Out of nowhere, two sets of arms grabbed me. I looked frantically around and saw that it was, indeed, Zack Ryder and Chris Jericho, restraining me as Cena prepared the cement shoes, looking rather like a vaudvillian caricature.

"No! No! I didn't mean it!" Cena started to forcefully slip my feet into the cement as I started to plead. I turned to Jericho. "I love you!"

"I love no one dressed in Big Show merch," he replied, frightfully cold.

Then, I looked down at myself, seeing that my awesome Punk merch had morphed into Big Show's.

"_Weeell, it's the Big Show,_" Zack began to sing.

"_Nooooo_!" I screamed melodramatically.

It was then, when my lungs were completely depleted of any oxygen I might have used to prolong my life, that they decide to hurl me off of the dock.

I crashed into the ocean, unable to even try to keep myself afloat due to those damn cement shoes. I sunk deeper and deeper. The salt water was invading my lungs and I swore I could hear the cackling of the wrestlers above and I was drowning and drowning and drowning because I _suck so much_ -

I sat up in bed, panting heavily, feeling the urge to scream and claw my own eyes out. I was surprised I was in bed at all, as realistic as the dream was. I found that I was clenching my chest as if I were in some old dame from a black and white movie.

I glanced at the check, placed gently on my nightstand and held in place by one of the random paperweights I kept around the apartment.

"Damn you, Cena," I said to absolutely no one.

My decision was made then, I supposed. It was a crazy and possibly stalker-ish decision, but it was one that I needed to make in the wake of my crazy ass dream. I shuddered at the memory.

I grabbed my cell phone, punched in a number that I knew as well as my own, and waited.

As the half-awake voice of my best friend greeted me, I barked, "Drew? Yeah, it's Tessa, you dumbass. You still got those tickets to the WWE show in Philly next week?"

* * *

_**End Chapter Three.**_


End file.
